


The Adventure of the Twisted Men

by WarlockWriter



Series: What Might We Deduce About Love? [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Case Fic, Community: holmes_big_bang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarlockWriter/pseuds/WarlockWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, it's established that John and Sherlock are in love. But what does that mean when the man you love barely acknowledges that fact? And where does sex fit into this relationship? Or does it?</p><p>Of course, there's a case to solve. Who is behind the disappearance of Neville St. Clair? Is Moriarty involved?</p><p>Case loosely based on The Man With the Twisted Lip.</p><p>Posted as part of the holmes_big_bang on livejournal</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Twisted Men

"You're going out?"

John turned as he shrugged into his coat. His flatmate was crouched in his chair by the window, looking for all the world like a giant bird of prey in wait. "Yes. I'm seeing Mary tonight."

Sherlock answered with a flat "Oh." Followed a moment later with a grudging "Have a good time."

John paused. "You're still all right with it?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. You'd best get going, or you'll be late for the film."

John frowned but Sherlock was correct. He barely had enough time to get a cab to Mary's house, pick her up and get to the theatre before they finished showing trailers.

As the cab wove through the busy London streets, he considered. Some months earlier Sherlock had asked "Do you love me, John?" The answer, of course, had been "Yes." And to his surprise, John discovered the emotion was returned. Sherlock had made it clear, however, that sex was not a needed part of the relationship, and he had indicated his acceptance of John seeking that elsewhere.

With typical military precision, John had found what appeared to be an ideal solution. He had a friend, Gary Morstan, who had also been injured in Afghanistan. Unlike John, Gary's injuries left him incapable of sexual congress, and in one drunken evening, Gary had said if Mary were going to have an affair, he wished it would be with someone like John.

After Sherlock suggested he find someone, John had gone to Mary and Gary with the proposition, and it had been accepted. John and Mary had a trial run, and they discovered that they fitted together very well, sexually. They soon settled into a schedule of meeting roughly every other week, and for John it met an additional need, that of seeing films in the cinema, an activity his flatmate detested.

John didn't love Mary, but he certainly enjoyed their time together. However, he was starting to sense growing unease from Gary, and now apparently Sherlock was also developing issues with the relationship.

He sighed. Why did he love Sherlock Holmes anyway? It wasn't an easy relationship. Sherlock was not much given for displays of affection, and rarely, if ever, spoke of the emotion between them. Mary had asked him one day, and he'd not been able to give her a good answer. The reasons just didn't sound right when he tried to say them out loud.

Take their last case, for example. As they examined the body in the morgue, John had noted that the petechial hemorrhages in the victim's eyes were not consistent with strangulation, as had been in the autopsy report. Instead, he said they were an indication of death by a poison that caused asphyxiation.

As he stated his findings, Sherlock had stopped to look at him, focusing all his attention on John. To the doctor that particular look sent a series of messages that went something like this:

_You're brilliant, amazing. Your shadow causes my light to shine as bright as the sun. I love you and want you never to leave me for I couldn't stand to go back to being merely bright after experiencing being blazing._

John lived for that look.

Later, they chased their suspect half-way across London. He tried to shoot Sherlock, but instead John shot him. Sherlock gave him the other look. The one that in anyone else would say _Fuck, John, you are so damned sexy with that gun_ but from Sherlock probably meant something more like _You were brilliant to have calculated the proper angle to merely wound instead of kill, while missing my flesh._

John also lived for that look.

The solving of the case had been so brilliant that Sherlock had actually agreed to Chinese takeaway and settling down to watch a rebroadcast of an episode of _Torchwood_. When Jack kissed Ianto, Sherlock had actually taken John's hand for a moment. It was as close to "I love you" as the detective ever got.

John shook his head as the cabbie pulled up to Mary's house. No, it wasn't easy loving Sherlock Holmes, but it was never boring either.

The film was lovely, and they went to their usual hotel. John's mobile beeped while he was fumbling with the key, and Mary was making some comment about how "he was usually better about getting it in."

He swore, opened the door and pulled out his phone. "Sorry, Mary. I forgot to turn the sound off."

She shrugged while he read the text.

_Sorry to bother, but I need you about a case. 9 Pekin St, Poplar_

_SH_

"Damn you, Sherlock!"

John glanced at the phone and then at Mary. He tried to ignore his cock, which was also expressing an opinion about the matter.

"Go," Mary said, her tone steady but her face sad.

"You're sure. I could, you know...."

She nodded. "I'm sure. That's the deal, isn't it? We've got each other for sex, but someone else holds our hearts."

The sad part for John was that she was right. No matter what his body seemed to think, as soon as Sherlock called, John wanted him. Simple as that. Oh not his body. But the thrill of watching his mind and the hope of one of those looks.

"I'm sure it's important anyway," Mary added.

John glanced one more time between her and his phone, then he sighed and handed her the key. "Yeah, it usually is." He leaned it to kiss her briefly. "I'll call you when we're finished with the case, and we can set up another time."

Her lips were warm with promise on his. "I'll be waiting."

Still experiencing very mixed feelings, John dashed downstairs and, to the obvious amusement of the concierge, called for a cab.

***

When the cab pulled up at the address, John checked twice to be sure he'd gotten it right. Yes, Sherlock had definitely texted this location.

"Everything all right?" the cabbie asked.

John nodded. "I guess so. Just not sure why he's sent me here."

He got out, paid the fare and looked around. Flats on one side of the street. A Catholic Church on the other side.

"Sherlock, it's a bloody church!"

He shook his head. Why'd his friend ask him to come here? He thought about Mary's warm body with more than a little regret, squared his shoulders and entered the church.

Most of the building was dark, but a haven of light beckoned from the end of a hallway, and John headed that way. When he entered the lit room, he saw several rows of chairs, most occupied, and a man standing at a podium, speaking.

"My name is Bill, and I'm a nicotine addict."

One of the seated men stood and hurried to John. "Come in," he whispered. "We've just started. Take a seat and be welcome."

John surveyed the room as he looked for a seat. Groaning, he recognized someone. Greg Lestrade smiled at him from two rows up and motioned him over. Well, better to sit by a friendly face at least.

"John? What brings you here? Didn't think you smoked." The detective's voice was low but clear.

"Sherlock texted me and this was the address he gave."

Lestrade glanced around. "Well, he's not here."

"Yeah, I noticed."

John took out his phone and, shielding it with his body, sent a text:

_Must be in the wrong place. Where are you?_

_JW_

He stifled a snort. Now he was copying his friend and signing his texts. Sherlock was a bad influence.

The meeting went on, and John looked around. There were plenty of men in the room, some of them tall (but not quite thin enough), some of them thin (but not in tailored black).

"He's not here," Lestrade whispered.

"Obviously, but then why'd he want me to come here?"

"Whoever knows what Sherlock wants?"

Good point. John usually knew, or could figure it out. But since he'd been acting particularly strange lately, even he didn't have a clue.

Lestrade stood up and took his turn at the podium. John was glad. Sherlock had messed up his evening. No reason to bollix up Greg's too.

Half an hour later, the meeting broke up. Everyone clustered in small groups, eating donuts and drinking stale coffee. John had never been to one of these himself, but Harry had, and she'd been quite willing to share what went on. Usually at the top of her voice, after she'd had a fourth pint. John ignored the clench in his heart as he took one last look around the room.

Still no Sherlock.

Lestrade was looking at him, his expression odd.

"What?"

"Not sure. You look more brassed off than normal at him."

John snorted. "Yeah. He texted me just as things were getting interesting with Mary."

"Oh," came the quiet reply.

Shrugging, John started for the door. "Oh is right. Too late to save anything now. Guess I'll head home. Maybe I can get some sleep before I have to curse him out."

Lestrade adjusted his gait to keep pace with the shorter man. "He do this often?"

"No, thank God."

A man in a filthy t-shirt and ragged jeans approached them. John held his nose as he came closer. The man was just over average height with rounded shoulders that hinted he'd been taller, when younger and healthier. From the alcohol smell rolling off him, John wasn't sure this was the right 12-step for him.

"Can I help you?" His mother had instilled courtesy in him from a young age.

"Walk with me. Both of you."

John's eyes widened. He knew that baritone. From Lestrade's low gasp beside him, so did the Detective Inspector. Both had enough presence of mind to just nod and walk out the door, into the anonymity of the darkened streets.

As soon as they were outside, the man stood to his full height, shedding his persona as easily as a swimmer sheds water. "Well, that was interesting," Sherlock said.

"Interesting?" John asked. "How so?" He really wanted to rip into his friend for interrupting his date, but he didn't want to get into that with Lestrade there.

The Detective Inspector was more blunt. "What the hell were you playing at, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective gave him a quizzical look. "I wasn't playing at anything. I was on a case, of course."

"What kind of case takes you to a Nicotine Anonymous meeting?"

"A missing person, of course." Sherlock looked at John. "The call came in soon after you left for your meeting."

John noticed how Sherlock went to some lengths to avoid saying Mary's name.

"It wouldn't have done for me to be recognized there, so I adopted a disguise."

"What would it mattered if you'd been recognized? Half London thinks you're a nutter."

John knew that Lestrade didn't mean anything by the comment, but it still bothered him to hear it.

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "I don't care if anyone sees me at a meeting." He glanced down at his arm. "Though perhaps I should have taken off the patch before arriving."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You went to a meeting with one on? That's too much, even from you."

"It helps me think."

"Enough," John said. "Why were you there, and who wasn't supposed to recognize you?"

Sherlock shot Lestrade a look that said _There! At least he gets it._ John felt his anger ease at the implied approval.

"Let's find a cab, and I'll explain," Sherlock said.

"I've got my car," Lestrade said. "I'll drop both of you at your flat."

Sherlock was amenable, and John never minded saving money, so they headed for Lestrade's car. John folded himself into the tiny back seat, letting his long-legged friend have the front.

"All right, Sherlock. Spill it," Lestrade said as he pulled into traffic.

"Do you know a Neville St. Clair?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned. The name meant nothing to him.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. Should it?"

"Not necessarily. But his wife is the one who phoned me this evening. She says her husband is gone missing."

"Did she report it?" Lestrade asked.

"No. And she was quite definite that I shouldn't either."

Lestrade snorted. "Well, so much for that. You just told me. I can file it in the morning, or this evening, if you'd prefer."

"I'd rather you didn't."

John sensed Lestrade's frustration. "Why? Not to cast doubt on your abilities, but surely this is a police matter. Doesn't sound like your usual thing at all."

"You haven't heard the rest of the story."

John sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. This was going to be a long evening.

"All right then. Stop wasting time and give it to me."

"Stop interrupting me, and I'll be able to."

"Ladies. Again, enough. " John said, not bothering to open his eyes. "Sherlock, just get to it. Greg, let him. I'd like to get some sleep tonight if at all possible."

"You can sleep on the way to the St. Clair estate," Sherlock said.

Now John opened his eyes. Lestrade was giving him a sympathetic look in the rear view mirror. "What? Who said we were going anywhere tonight?"

"Idiot! If you'll both shut up and let me explain, all will become apparent."

John stifled and groan and sat back in his seat again. He resigned himself to another days-long stint with little to no sleep.

Sherlock waited a moment, and when no one said anything, he nodded and began.

"As I was saying, Mrs. St. Clair phoned me this evening to ask for my help. Her husband is a man of some prominence in Maidstone, but he often comes to London on business. Three nights ago, he told her he'd be back in two days. This was nothing unusual, though he also said he'd bring back gifts for the children. Apparently that was enough out of character that she noted it.

"He didn't return when he said he would, but she wasn't overly worried. She says he often stays in the city a day or two longer than he planned. As it happened, she travelled in today. Something about an appointment for a sick child. The taxi took her past the Church we just left, and she swore she saw her husband going inside. She stopped the cab and went to look, but the man she thought she saw had vanished.

"She has been calling and texting Neville St. Clair ever since, and gotten no response. Finally, she decided to contact me."

Lestrade shook his head as he pulled up to 221B Baker Street. "Sounds like a straight-forward missing person's case to me. Still not sure why you're so keen on it."

Sherlock opened the door and stepped onto the street. John unfolded himself from the back seat and followed him. The tall detective leaned in the window to answer Lestrade. "It interests me. I'll keep you informed."

John highly doubted that, and from the expression on Lestrade's face, the copper agreed. "Thanks for the ride, Greg."

"Text me, John."

John nodded. "I will."

He watched Lestrade drive off before following Sherlock, who was already unlocking the door to their flat. "John, pack your bag. We need to leave in just a few minutes." He spoke without even turning around.

They entered their flat, and Sherlock started for his room. John didn't move. His friend's steps faltered, and he turned. "What?"

"No," John said, his voice quiet but firm.

Sherlock frowned. "No, what?"

"No, I'm not packing a bag, at least not without more information."

"Why not?"

It was a reasonable question, but John wasn't feeling reasonable right now. "You've called me back for a missing husband? Sherlock, husbands go missing all the time. But it's not every day that I'm on the verge of getting a leg over with Mary!"

Sherlock's expression closed down completely, and he turned back to the hall, shoulders and back rigid. "Suit yourself, John. I'm certain I can handle it myself."

John swore to himself. It was easy to forget that Sherlock could be hurt. Oh not by Donovan calling him "freak" or Anderson's endless psychopath comments. Since he didn't care about them, or almost anyone else, those comments went right by him.

No. The person who could hurt Sherlock very badly was John. And only John. The only person Sherlock loved and had let inside. Not very far, true, but far enough.

The problem John faced was never knowing what was going to hurt. Sometimes he could haul off, verbally speaking, and let loose with exactly what he felt, and his flatmate wouldn't even blink. And then there were days like today when it seemed like anything would do it.

John's anger cooled immediately. Three quick steps took him to Sherlock. He put his arms around the lean waist and leaned his head on the taut back. Muscles thrummed with tension under his cheek.

"Sorry."

No response, other than not pulling away, which was a sort of response, and a good one, under the circumstances.

"I love you."

That one usually worked, but oddly, this time, it just made him tenser.

Damn! Something was definitely going on with Sherlock, but now wasn't the time to tease it out. It would have to wait until after the case was solved.

He gave his friend a quick hug and pulled back. "All right then. Let me pack my bag, and we'll go find this husband. I hear Maidstone is lovely this time of year."

This time Sherlock half-turned, and John smiled at the gratitude in his eyes. He made no comment, though, and went to his room, emerging a few minutes later with an overnight bag.

Sherlock had removed his disguise, showered and was back in his usual shirt, trousers and coat. He picked up his own bag, and they headed out to find a cab.

***

"So tell me why we're going to Maidstone." John asked as the cab pulled away from the kerb. "You're not usually keen about making house calls."

"I'm not, but she refused to come into the city to talk to us."

"That seems odd," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "Perhaps. She says her son is ill, and she can't leave him right now."

"What do you know that you're not willing to tell Lestrade, and why the disguise back there?"

Sherlock gave him the _see, this is why I keep you around_ look. John smiled and waited.

"I asked a few questions. I think Neville St. Clair has more than just business interests in the city. And the disguise was so Lascar wouldn't recognize me.”

John frowned, running through the list of people he knew about in Sherlock's life. It didn't take long, but then John didn't know the names of most of the people in the Homeless Network. Finally, he asked, "Who's Lascar?"

"Drug dealer, fence."

"Oh, in other words, not a very nice man."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No, not a very nice man."

"And why exactly are you trying to avoid him?"

Sherlock took out his phone and sent a quick text before answering. "He didn't take kindly to me shutting down one of his supply lines last year."

John could see where that wouldn't have endeared him to the mysterious Lascar. "So what's his connection to this?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "No connection to this case. However, he attends the meeting. You might have noticed him. Fourth row, six seats from the left."

John thought back. "Nope. Missed him."

Sherlock frowned and started to speak. John cut him off. "I know. I _see_ but I don't _observe_. Save the comments on my powers of observation, or lack thereof, for later. What 'other business interests' do you think Mr. St. Clair is involved in?"

The cab arrived at the car rental before his flatmate had a chance to respond. John paid the cab fare while Sherlock went inside, returning momentarily with the keys to a Land Rover. John smiled. For someone who eschewed most luxuries, his flatmate was particular about vehicles. John climbed in, accepted the piece of paper Sherlock handed him with the address and programmed the GPS. Moments later, they were off.

Traffic was light this late in the evening. John thought it would take them just over an hour to arrive in Maidstone. "So, business interests?"

"It’s not clear yet. I’ve had little time to check him out, but a quick question to the Homeless Network came back that he’d been seen with unsavory folk."

John frowned. “That’s not much to go on.”

"True. Which is why I don't yet want to involve Lestrade."

"We can't keep him out of it forever."

"Also true." The GPS warned of an upcoming turn, and Sherlock changed lanes. "But for the moment, I think we're better investigating this on our own."

John had no specific objection to that, but something wasn’t sitting right. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

They made the rest of the drive in silence. John's time estimate had been correct, and as they pulled up to the house, he asked, "You're sure about this? It's rather late."

"She knows and said it didn't matter how late we arrived. That's why I suggested you pack a bag. I didn't plan to drive back. She said her guest room has two beds."

"Oh, well that's a relief," John said, considering that the number of beds was the least of their worries right now.

John followed Sherlock out of the Land Rover, smiling at the way his black coat billowed out behind him like a cape.

The door to the house opened as they walked up, and a pretty young woman, about thirty, attired neatly and simply in slacks and a cotton blouse, came out to greet them.

"Mr. Holmes! Thank you for coming all this way, and so late too."

Sherlock inclined his head, as if the gratitude were his due. John started to smile, but suppressed it when his friend pulled him forward and said, "No trouble at all, Mrs. St Clair. And this is my colleague, John Watson. He's often of assistance on my cases."

Ah, the polite manner. In other words, Sherlock didn't trust her for a second and was going to try to charm information out of her. Interesting. John smiled and took her offered hand. "I hope we'll be able to help."

She smiled at both of them, though there was strain in it, as she motioned them into the house. "Please come in. You will be staying the night, of course. The guest room has two beds."

Sherlock lifted his overnight bag. "Thank you. We'll certainly take you up on the kind offer."

Extra polite then. John knew this would be interesting.

Mrs. St. Clair showed them to their room, and they put down their bags. John claimed the bed nearest the door, and Sherlock gave him the faintest of smiles. John shrugged. Although there was no obvious danger, he preferred to be between it and Sherlock, if necessary.

"Perhaps you want to freshen up first?"

"Not necessary," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, all right then. Perhaps some tea?"

"That would be lovely," John said, before Sherlock had a chance to refuse. If he was going to be pulled away from home on a moment's notice, the least he deserved was some tea.

Sherlock made a huffing sound but said nothing as he followed their hostess to the sitting room. A few minutes later, she returned with three steaming mugs on a tray with sugar and milk. John added a spoonful of sugar and as much milk as the mug would hold. As usual, Sherlock took his black.

As soon as the social niceties were dealt with, Mrs. St. Clair leaned forward, her expression earnest. "Anything yet, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'm afraid not. You've not yet given me much to go on."

As if she hadn't heard him, she continued. "I want you to tell me something, and I want the truth. No sugar coating it, please. Do you believe my husband is still alive?"

Sherlock put down his cup. "Belief has little to do with it. He either is or he is not."

John made the slightest warning sound, and the detective's eyes shot in his direction for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was warmer, with a hint of sympathy. John smiled faintly in satisfaction.

"Perhaps you can give me the rest of the story. You didn't give me much over the phone earlier." John could almost hear, as a silent echo, "And don't be boring." Sherlock leaned forward, hands steepled under his chin as he waited for Mrs. St. Clair to speak.

"Well, it's pretty much like I told you earlier. My husband went into the city, like he often does. He was supposed to be home night, but I didn't really worry when he didn't come home. Sometimes his business keeps him longer than he'd planned. I had to take Charlie, my son, in to a doctor's appointment today, and when we drove past the church, I thought I saw my husband. He looked absolutely terrified, and he ducked back into the building before I could get out of the cab."

"And you're certain it was your husband?" John asked.

Her eyes flicked down. "Well, no I can't be completely certain, but it looked like him. I recognized his grey suit. I've been phoning him all day, and he never picks up or calls back. That's not like him at all."

"Any reason for him to be in the church?" Sherlock asked.

Her eyes moved again before answering. "No reason. It's not even our denomination."

John watched body language carefully and wondered what Sherlock's next move would be.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

She shuffled her feet. "Well, I did receive an email from him today."

Sherlock and John both leaned forward. "And you didn't think to mention this before now?" the detective said, scorn in his voice.

She fluttered her hands. "I'm sorry. This whole thing, plus Charlie being ill, well, it's more than I'm used to."

"Show me the email," Sherlock said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.

She got up and left the room. John shot his friend a look, but he shook his head, which John took to mean that he'd get filled in later.

Mrs. St. Clair came back a moment later, with a piece of paper in her hand. She handed it to Sherlock, and John moved next to him to read over his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened slightly as he did so, which John found odd. His friend rarely cared about personal space, invading his own on a regular basis. John filed it away with the other oddities, intending to deal with them after the case had been solved.

The email was short:

_Dearest,_

_Do not worry. There has been a huge error which I need to fix. All will be well soon._

_Neville_

"Seems straightforward enough," John said after reading it.

Mrs. St. Clair hesitated before answering. John felt the tension in Sherlock's body and wondered what he'd missed this time.

"Yes, it is. But...I don't know. Something about it seems off to me."

"You don't think he wrote it," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question.

For the first time since they'd arrived, she looked his directly in the eye. "No, I don't think he wrote it."

Sherlock nodded, the motion slow and thoughtful. "All right then. Forward it to me." He gave his email address. "I might be able to learn something from the header information."

She nodded, something like gratitude in her eyes. John sighed. Obviously something had been communicated. Just as obviously, he didn't have a clue, but he knew Sherlock would fill him in.

The detective stood up. "Well, that's enough for one evening." He turned to John. "Perhaps a short walk before retiring?"

"Of course."

Mrs. St. Clair also stood. "There's fresh towels in the loo. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll have breakfast ready at half seven in the morning, if that's all right."

"Perfect," Sherlock said on his way out the door. "Will we trip the alarm on the way back in?"

She shook her head. "I'll arm it when you get back. I'll hear the door."

Without a word, Sherlock swept out of the room, John hurrying to follow.

***

Once outside, Sherlock moved away from the house, his stride purposeful. John stretched his legs to keep up, wishing that his friend would remember not everyone had his long legs.

Once they were several yards away from the house, John said, "So she's obviously lying."

"Of course." Sherlock's voice made the observation self-evident. "But she's too obvious about it. I think she's being watched and putting on an act for someone else."

John frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"Isn't it obvious? Her eyes keep darting to the side as she speaks, as if she's checking on something. She's not the type of woman to flutter her hands. I mean, look at her clothes, power business suit, no more than six months old and fashionable without being showy. Medium height heels, still worn in the house. Nails well shaped. She probably had a manicure within the last week. Makeup applied professionally, enough to highlight her features without drawing attention to the fact that she's wearing it at all." He shook  his head. "No, she's not the fluttering hands type, so that was intended to signal us that something's amiss."

John stifled the now-reflexive, "That's amazing."

Sherlock continued. "And there are no children in the house, so the sick child story is an obvious fabrication." His eyebrows drew down. "I'm still not sure why she's lying about that."

"How can you possibly know there's no children in the house?"

Sherlock sighed. "Don't you ever pay attention, John?" There was more affection than exasperation in his tone. "We passed through the kitchen on our way to our room. Whole wheat crisps, high quality cheese and half a glass of wine. No cereal boxes, juice cups or other food for children in evidence. What mother bothers to clean up food detritus while her child is ill? Then there was the hallway to the bedroom. We passed two doors on our way to the guest room. Both were open. Both were decorated as children's rooms, but no children in them. Where were they?"

"Watching telly somewhere?"

Sherlock shook his head. "We would have heard that. No, the children have been moved. The question is did she and her husband send them somewhere for safety's sake, or are they being used against her to maintain her cooperation? We need to tread lightly here. More lives than hers could be at stake here."

John shook his head. "Now you care about lives?"

Sherlock shot him a look. "No, but you do, and you're more helpful to me when I keep others in mind."

John made a "huffing" sound but didn't say anything.

They continued their walk, Sherlock nodding his head in time to his long strides.

"The one thing she told us that was the truth was about the email. She really doesn't think he wrote it. Almost everything else she told us of importance was a lie, including him having no reason to be in the Church." He frowned. "The Church is significant. I know it, but I can't figure out why. I'm still lacking information."

"Maybe when you can take a look at the email?"

"Perhaps." He took a few more steps, then stopped. "We should be heading back. It would be suspicious to the listeners if we're gone too long."

John had been thinking while they walked, turning an idea around in his head. "Do you suppose this whole thing was arranged to get you involved?"

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John nearly tripped over him. The detective turned, his eyes shining in the moonlight. "Brilliant, John! Again, you've done it. Of course. It's so obvious now that you've said it."

"It is?"

"Of course. A case guaranteed to catch my interest. Mrs. St. Clair contacts me and invites me here where she's being observed. Someone wants to watch me work. That may be the significance of the Church. High probability that Lascar is involved. I should have seen that earlier. Draw my attention there, knowing that I'd suspect his involvement. A perfect opportunity to attempt an entrapment."

John frowned. "Well, maybe. But it's kind of obvious. I mean, generally when someone wants to spring an ambush, they don't put out a sign saying 'Look! over here!'"

"They do if it's a trap within a trap. I'd believe that Lascar would be obvious. I've never been impressed with his intelligence. I took his network down once. I'd be confident I could do it again."

John nodded. "So it's 'Look at this trap over here. Focus your attention here so you're not seeing what's really going on over there.'"

Sherlock's gaze went absolutely still at the same time John got it. They both nodded and John said, "Of course. It's just like three red-haired laborers thing. Another misdirection."

"I'm sensing another hand behind this."

Without thinking, John surveyed his surroundings. The night suddenly seemed too quiet. "Inside. Now." He automatically used his command voice, and, to his surprise, Sherlock immediately started moving. John filed that bit of information away for future reference and hurried to keep up.

As they walked, he continued to scan for danger. He wished he'd brought his gun. Its weight in his waistband would be very comforting right now. "Are you thinking Moriarty?"

Sherlock's voice was hushed. "Yes. Although, I'm not convinced. While clever, it doesn't seem quite clever enough."

John didn't want to think too much about having a second criminal mastermind lurking around. One was quite enough.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the house and went inside. John relaxed fractionally. They weren't actually safer in the house, but at least the number of directions for attack were reduced significantly.

Mrs. St. Clair met them in the sitting room, and her eyes widened. Sherlock motioned her to be quiet, and she nodded, her expression showing her relief.

"And how was your walk, gentlemen?" Her tone was smooth, but her eyes revealed her true question. Sherlock had been correct, as usual.

"Pleasant enough," the detective responded, his tone equally smooth. "The night was surprisingly quiet. One could almost imagine that a conversation could be overheard from a great distance."

"Indeed," was all she said.

John suppressed a grin. Conversations within conversations. "I apologize, but the journey here was tiring. I'd like to turn in." He turned to his friend. "Stay up if you'd like."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "No, John. I agree. It is late. I may stay awake and think for a bit, but I can do that in our room." He turned to Mrs. St. Clair. "We'll see you in the morning."

"Very good." She started to turn, but at the last moment stopped, as if she'd just remembered something inconsequential. "Oh, I forwarded that email to you."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. I'll take a look at it in the morning."

"Until then, gentlemen."

She left, and John and Sherlock made their way to their room.

John hadn't paid much attention to it earlier. Now he gave it a thorough look over. Decent-sized. Two beds and a dresser still left enough room to move about comfortably. Large wooden windows on the far wall. John reconsidered his choice of bed.

"I prefer to be close to the window. I'd like the air, if you don't object."

All right. Sherlock was staking his claim. John wasn't completely happy about it. He went over to be certain they were locked. They weren't, and he flipped the latches. Not terribly secure, but the windows were old and the wood had swelled over the years. No way to open them quietly, and breaking the glass would give them plenty of warning. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather keep them closed. It's chilly. I'd rather not freeze all night."

Sherlock nodded, his expression pleased. John felt the now-familiar warmth in his chest when it was obvious he'd gotten it. Sherlock hadn't actually wanted the window open. He'd just wanted to make it clear he wasn't moving. So he thought their room was bugged as well. John was glad they were in agreement on this.

Moving on. The room had an adjoining loo, and John went to check it out while Sherlock fiddled with his phone. Probably checking the email Mrs. St. Clair had forwarded.

It was bare. Guest use only then. The children, when present, must use another. No windows and no other exit. Low threat. John put it out of his mind. It could be used for evening ablutions and then safely ignored.

Back to the bedroom. His phone beeped.

_All secure?_

_SH  
_

So they were going to communicate this way. Slow but difficult to overhear. Prudent. He sat down on his bed and typed. Sherlock tapped his foot. John huffed. Not his fault he was a slow typist.

_Yes. No entry from the loo. Windows and door here. Windows difficult to open. We'll have warning. They'll have to get through me if they use the door._

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Want to use the loo first?" His fingers moved over his phone as he spoke. John suddenly realized the advantage of an iPhone and its on-screen keyboard. No tapping sounds, unlike his own. He made a mental note to get Sherlock to replace his phone. The detective could afford it.

_Protective much?_

_SH  
_

John felt the red rise in his cheeks. Well, of course. He was a soldier. And he loved the man, no matter how annoying he was. "Sure. I'll only be a minute." He stood up and grabbed his kit. And turned the sound off on his phone. No need to be completely obvious about it.

Sherlock watched him with another appraising glance. Fingers moved.

_I'm forgiven for earlier then?_

_SH  
_

John hid a grin as he ducked through the adjoining door.

_Maybe. We'll see._

He kept an eye on the phone display as he fished his toothbrush out of his kit.

_Ah. I'll work on it._

_SH  
_

John shook his head as he brushed his teeth. That was actually odd, coming from Sherlock, who hadn't ever mentioned anything about "working" on their relationship. This could be good. Most of the time John felt like he was fumbling in the dark. Actually talking about it once in a while might give him some clues.

But not tonight. Not when they couldn't be certain who was listening in.

He finished up and changed into sweats while Sherlock used the sink. By the time he'd finished, John was already stretched out under the sheets, which had a considerably higher thread count than his own. Sherlock would approve, assuming he slept this evening.

His friend came out, turning off the light behind him.

"Sleeping tonight?" John asked. He figured it was safe enough topic, even with the listeners.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I need to work out something about this case. There's still something about it which puzzles me."

As he spoke, he fussed with several nicotine patches. Only two. So he was lying for the listeners.

John shot him a questioning look, but the detective shook his head, pointedly glancing at the walls. After smoothing the patches on his arm, he picked up his phone.

_Obviously not quite the truth. I can't examine the email properly until I get back to my computer. I've got something else to ponder this evening._

_SH  
_

John nodded, knowing there was no point in inquiring further. When Sherlock was ready and there were no listeners, he'd hear about it.

Sherlock grabbed the pillows from his bed, then the sheets, then, without asking, two of the pillows from John's bed.

"Oi!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't give them back. Finally, he tossed the cushions from the chair by the window on top and arranged the lot into a sort of Eastern divan. He settled himself comfortably and closed his eyes.

Sensing a long night, John sighed, clutched his remaining pillow and rolled over. It wasn't that Sherlock would be loud. When he was thinking, he was capable of absolute silence. No, the problem was more that John and Sherlock had never shared a room before, and John was finding his thoughts moving in uncomfortable directions.

His thoughts went back to his discussion several months ago with Sherlock, when they'd first discussed this...whatever it was...between them.

_"John, you know love doesn't require sex. You're just having trouble because, for you, it always has."_

Sherlock had been correct, and John was still having trouble with it. Things with Mary had been satisfying, but John knew something was missing. It wasn't just the sex. John liked physical contact, and that just wasn't Sherlock's thing. He suspected their "love" was more an intellectual exercise for the detective, and that wasn't enough for John.

But was he interested in Sherlock that way? He didn't know. He'd never been interested in men before, and that hadn't changed. Sherlock occasionally wandered the flat without a shirt, and while John appreciated the view, in an intellectual sense, it hadn't ever done anything for him.

Or was he being completely honest with himself? There had been several extremely vivid dreams in the last couple months, involving his flatmate. Were those real? Did they mean anything?

He remembered a conversation with an old girlfriend. They'd been giggling over funny dreams, and she'd admitted to having frankly sexual dreams about an old roommate at university. She didn't think she was a lesbian (and John had good reason to agree), but she'd said she'd enjoyed them, though she'd never mentioned them to her friend.

Were his dreams something like that? Did most straight men have them sometimes? He wouldn't know. It's not the sort of thing guys talked about.

"John. Stop thinking. You're distracting me."

Typical Sherlock. John rolled over, settled himself more comfortably in the luxurious sheets and finally managed to fall into a deep sleep. If he dreamed, he didn't remember them in the morning.

***

John awoke to the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Sherlock was gone, but the scattering of sheets and pillows remained. John groaned, and crawled out of bed. His sense of neatness couldn't leave the mess, and he took a few minutes to put everything back in order. Dressing quickly, he left the room, following his nose to breakfast.

Sherlock and Mrs. St. Clair were sitting companionably enough in the breakfast nook. John noticed with satisfaction that his flatmate was actually eating something. Not much, just a bit of toast and maybe an egg or two, but it was more than he usually consumed on a case.

Their hostess rose to greet them. "Dr. Watson. I trust you slept well?"

John nodded. "Yes, thank you. And I'm afraid I've woken hungry."

She laughed, a light sound John quite enjoyed. For some reason, Sherlock was scowling at him, and he shot his flatmate a questioning glance. The detective shook his head and went back to his toast.

Mrs. St. Clair served up eggs, bacon and toast. "Try the strawberry jam. We grow our own berries, and I make it myself."

John dug in with appreciation, shared unhesitatingly with their hostess. Sherlock remained silent through the meal, but that was normal, and John enjoyed the few minutes of peace to enjoy his food.

As he'd expected, as soon as he'd finished, the detective made noises about getting back, and John started gathering up his plates.

"Oh, no, Dr. Watson. I'll take care of that." She turned to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes. Do you have enough to go on to find my husband?"

He shook his head, surprising John. "It's very thin, but I'll do what I can. Unfortunately, I can make no promises."

Then John looked closer and saw the barest hint of a  twinkle in his green-blue eyes, and he hid a smile. Mrs. St. Clair studied his face and apparently saw the same thing, because she smiled broadly before replying, her tone at odds with her expression.

"Well, I suppose your best will have to be enough. I am very worried, but I'm confident that if he can be found, you'll be the one."

"We'll do our best." His tone was grave, but his eyes were dancing.

John grinned and went back to their room to gather their luggage, packing up Sherlock's things without really thinking about it.

***

They strolled to the car. Sherlock's tense stride made it obvious he wanted to hurry, but they couldn't be certain there weren't actual watchers in addition to audio recording devices.

Sherlock started the Land Rover almost before John had fastened his seatbelt, and they started back to London.

"Assume it's safe enough to talk now?" John asked.

"Never assume that, but I think it unlikely that anyone slipped a bug on the car in the night. I could see it quite well from the window in our room."

"So that's why you wanted to be next to the window."

"Obviously. And while I do appreciate your wish to keep me safe, I didn't expect them to try anything in the night. If they wanted to be that obvious about it, they would have tried something earlier. No, I think last night was an attempt to lull me into seeing the obvious trap and distracting me from the real case."

"Which is?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm still not certain. I need to see the email. It may not tell me anything. If Moriarty is involved, it certainly won't. But if it's someone else, they might have left a clue."

John did not like the thought that Moriarty might be involved with anything.

"For what it's worth, I don't think it's him. Not subtle enough."

"Unless he's being subtle by being too obvious."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. "I must be rubbing off on you, John."

"Live with an insane genius long enough, and you start to figure out how they think."

"I'm hardly insane." But his tone sounded pleased.

"So what do you think is going on, and what's the next move?"

Sherlock drove in silence for a moment, and John waited, well used to this by now. Finally, the detective said, "Lascar is obviously involved, but I don't think he's the main villain. We'll need to be careful, though. He does have a tendency to...overreact...to situations."

John assumed that meant disposing of the body messily and where it could be easily discovered.

"White slavery is involved in some way, but I'm not certain of the St. Clair involvement. I don't think they are engaged in it, so I assume they are in opposition in some fashion."

"Wait. What?" John asked. "White slavery? Where did you get that?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

John sighed. "Not to me. How about you spell it out for those of us of little brains."

" _Winnie the Pooh_ reference. Too obvious, John. And you don't have a little brain. It's quite large enough. You just don't use it properly."

"That may be. But I still don't know where you got the white slavery clue?" John rather enjoyed his role as straight man. Not what he expected before he met Sherlock, but he got a strange thrill when his flatmate's eyes lit up as he explained a deduction.

"Blue Blindfold leaflet in the drawing room. Report on the bookshelf published by Vital Voices. VHS tapes which are recordings of several documentaries. They clearly have an interest, but the evidence points to them being in opposition. Lascar has meddled in that area in the past, so it stands to reason that he's still involved in some way, which might be what brought them to his attention."

John nodded. "Okay, that makes sense. So human trafficking. That doesn't sound like Moriarty's style. Not enough flair to it."

"But plenty of money and enough challenge to keep him interested. Still doesn't rule him out, but I'm inclined to agree."

"So if it's not our favorite psychopath, who is the power behind this one since you've said Lascar isn't enough?"

"That remains to be seen. Now, be quiet. I need to think."

Well used to this, John stared idly out the window, doing his best to keep his thoughts from turning in directions he didn't want to face right now. Reviewing symptoms and treatments for as many diseases as he could remember did the trick well enough.

***

Back at 221B, Sherlock dashed up the stairs, leaving John to bring in the bags. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock was already glued to his laptop, presumably looking at the email Mrs. St. Clair had forwarded.

"Anything useful?"

"Give me a minute, John. I've barely glanced at it."

 _And already noticed 16 things no one else would have,_ but he didn't say it. He dropped Sherlock's bag in his room and went up to unpack his own. By the time he came back downstairs, Sherlock was standing at the window, tuning his violin.

"Found something then."

"Of course."

John padded into the kitchen to make tea, knowing Sherlock needed a few minutes to work through his conclusions. Music followed him, something by Mozart. Violin Concerto #3 he thought. He'd learned a lot about violin music in the last year.

Two mugs of tea ready, he went back to the living room and waited for his flatmate to finish. After a few minutes, Sherlock put down the violin.

"I think Moriarty is behind this."

Alarm shot through John, and he half-stood without being conscious of the movement. Sherlock waved him back down. "He's not here, so sit down, John."

John did so, his fingers still itching for his gun. "What makes you think that?"

"How much do you know about email headers?"

John blinked at the question but answered, "Not much. They can be used to trace the source of an email, I think, but I don't really know how."

Sherlock nodded. "That's enough to go on. Whoever sent that email covered his tracks well, using a couple of dummy IP relays, but..."

"But what?"

"I think he intended it to be traced. By me specifically."

John took a sip of his tea, allowing the soothing warmth to pass through him, slowing his heart rate and letting him think. "What did you find?"

"An account. The name meant nothing, until I looked further. It's obviously a fake account, but I was able to track down the supposed name of the owner."

"Who was?"

"Andrew West."

The name sounded familiar, but it took John a moment to get it. "Wait. The guy who had the missile plans on a memory stick?"

"The same."

"But he's dead."

"Exactly. And who else but Moriarty would use that name, knowing I'd recognize it?"

"Shit!"

"Crude, but accurate, John."

John glanced around the flat, expecting red dots to appear any minute. When none did, he relaxed. Slightly. "What now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Obviously, we must find Neville St. Clair. If he's involved in a Moriarty plot then he's in grave danger."

"Of  course, that's probably just what the bastard wants us to do."

"Yes, but I don't see another option."

John shook his head. "Neither do I? So how do we find him?"

"We shake down Lascar. He's the only lead we have right now."

John's fingers tightened, already feeling a neck under them. "Right."

Just then Sherlock's phone beeped. The detective glanced down, and his jaw tightened.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock handed over the phone.

_Took you long enough. JM_

The invisible weight of Semtex hung on John's shoulders for a moment. He shook himself to get rid of the feeling.

The phone beeped again.

_I've missed this so much. Haven't you? For old time's sake, how about 6 hours? JM_

John glanced at his watch. 11:32.

Sherlock's eyes were blazing green. John just nodded.

Another beep.

_And before you tell me I'm repeating myself, understand that I do it because it's so much..._

A moment later

_FUN!_

"Bastard!" John said.

This time it was Sherlock's turn to nod. John recognized the hyper focus in his friend's eyes.

"We need to call Lestrade,” John said. “Tracing the text won't give us anything, but we can't overlook it."

"Do it, John." Sherlock was already moving to the door, his hand half-raised, ready to hail a cab as soon as he was outside.

John grabbed his jacket and yelled, "Hang on a second."

Sherlock turned with barely concealed impatience, but he paused. John shot past him up the stairs, coming back a moment later with his gun.

Sherlock nodded his approval while John settled it in his waistband, comforted by the familiar weight in the small of his back.

While Sherlock took care of the taxi, John called Lestrade.

"DI Lestrade."

"Greg, it's Moriarty again."

"Damn!"

A cab pulled up, and Sherlock was in it immediately, barely waiting for John to climb in after him.

"What do you know?"

John shook his head, knowing the Detective Inspector couldn't see it but unable to stop the motion. "Not much yet. He's the reason for Neville St. Clair's disappearance. And there might be a link to human trafficking, but that's less certain."

"Where are you now?"

John glanced over at Sherlock who mouthed, "The Church." John nodded.

"We’re heading for the Church from last night. We're going after Lascar. He's the only link we have to this. Oh, and Greg. There's a time limit."

"How long?"

"6 hours."

"Is that all? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Sherlock put out a hand, and John followed the thought in the detective's expression. He didn't like it, but he understood the necessity.

"Don't rush too fast," he said.

Sudden suspicion in Lestrade's voice. "Why not?"

John glanced over at Sherlock, who nodded, the motion definite. John sighed but said, "So you won't have to see anything you'd rather not know about, officially."

"Oh." The tone said everything. "45 minutes then?"

John's eyes darted back to Sherlock who nodded.

"Yeah, I think that'll be good."

Lestrade's voice lowered. "I don't like this, John."

"Neither do I. But I'm not sure we have much choice this time." He hated saying it. He was a soldier. He'd seen torture, and everything in him screamed at him to stop this. But he also knew Moriarty. The unseen weight bowed his shoulders for a moment.

A hand on his leg, warm and heavy. John looked up in surprise. Sherlock almost never touched him. The blue-green eyes held understanding. John nodded.

"Just be there, Greg, but not too fast."

A sigh on the other end. "All right. See you soon."

Such a normal statement for such an abnormal situation.

"Thank you," Sherlock's voice was quiet but heartfelt.

John shook his head. "I meant what I said. I don't like it." He knew Sherlock had done it before, with the cabbie from their first case. Necessity didn't excuse it, but they were short on time. And Lascar was also "not a very nice man."

"Promise me you'll try to find another way if at all possible."

He nodded. "You know I will. It's just that I know Lascar well. He doesn't respond well to gentle persuasion."

John sighed and leaned back in the cab, closing his eyes. "Just don't ask me to actually do it."

"I won't." Sherlock moved his hand, and they made the rest of the ride in silence.

***

They arrived at the church and paid the cabbie. Standing outside, gathering himself for what was to come, John asked, "How do you know he'll be here?"

Sherlock swept past him. "I've made it my business to know his schedule."

John shook his head. Of course he had.

"His cover job is as a janitor. This time of day, the church is mostly empty, the best time for him to perform his duties."

Also a good time to pressure him for information. Few, if any witnesses.

John followed his friend into the building. He put out a hand, grabbing the greatcoat. "Half a second, Sherlock."

The detective turned, impatience written all over his face. "What is it now, John? If you're going to go squeamish on me..."

John shook his head. "No, that's not it." He kept his voice low, not wanting to warn anyone of their presence. "It's just. How about a bit of a plan? What do you want from me?"

Sherlock's expression softened. "Just back me up. And have the gun out. That can't hurt."

John nodded. "I can do that." He sighed and motioned Sherlock to continue.

For such a large man, the detective moved in absolute silence. John, of course, had his army training to teach him stealth. Sherlock strode confidently along the hallway, head cocked to one side. John assumed his was listening for something. A few seconds later he heard it. The squeak of a rolling cart. John reached behind him and drew forth his gun. Sherlock gave him a look of approval.

They crept along to the end of the hallway. Before turning the corner, Sherlock waved him to stop. John did so, expressing his reluctance with only a grimace. The detective ignored it and stepped around the corner.

"Ah, Lascar. Showing your usual diligence, I see."

 _Sod this,_ John thought and followed his friend, gun held low by his side, out of sight but ready to brandish if needed.

He hadn't properly noticed Lascar the night before, being more concerned with finding Sherlock. Now he looked properly, and he was surprised to see orange hair, and a horribly twisted lip that brought one side of his face upwards in a mocking grin. Warm brown eyes peered incongruously from under his nauseatingly vibrant locks. A janitor's overalls and work boots completed the image.

"Well, if it isn't the great Sherlock 'olmes himself." The tone was mocking. "Here to examine the state o' your soul?"

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, his tone vaguely amused.

Lascar's eyes shifted to regard John. "And 'oos this? Your sidekick, John Watson? Read about you in the papers. What makes a man like you want to follow around this great idiot?"

John remained silent. No use letting Lascar see that the barbs had stuck.

"Sidekick?" Sherlock said. "I suppose I must have a word with the papers then. John is my partner, far above a mere 'sidekick.'"

Ignoring Lascar's taunt had been easy. Suppressing the warmth that rose within him at "partner" was much more difficult, and the sudden twinkle in Lascar's eyes told him he'd not been successful.

Lascar put down his broom with a sigh, clutching his back, as if to ease an ache. John wasn't fooled, and he raised his own gun. "Sherlock. Watch out! Hands where I can see them, Lascar."

Without conscious realization, he'd moved to block Sherlock with his own body. Lascar grinned and moved his hands in front of his body. Again, John had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd revealed more than he'd intended.

A quick glance at his flatmate showed a pleased expression in the faint crinkles around his eyes. Okay, he hadn't screwed up too badly.

Sherlock stepped around him, confidence evident in the set of his body. "Enough fencing, Lascar. You know why I'm here."

John watched as the villain shifted and took half a step forward. John didn't say anything, but let him move. He couldn't manage Sherlock's level of deduction, but, from the way Lascar held his body, John judged he did have a gun in the small of his back. He remained alert 

"Of course I know. You're here about the St. Clair fellow. I half-expected you at the meeting last night. I was surprised to see your 'partner' instead."

John suppressed a blink at the change in accent. Perfect enunciation. Definitely the result of a high-class prep school, if not university.

A small smile spread across Sherlock's  face, and Lascar frowned.  "Ah, so you were. One of your vaunted disguises then?"

The detective said nothing. His expression said it all.

"I suppose you expect the gun in the good doctor's hand is enough to frighten me into a confession?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all. I expect I'll have to resort to more...extreme...measures."

The more he saw of Lascar, the more John had to agree that simple intimidation wouldn't be enough. He resigned himself to what was to come.

Lascar and Sherlock remained staring at each other in unspoken conversation. John suppressed his annoyance at being left out of it.

Finally, Lascar turned, as if to go. "Well, this has been pleasant enough, but I really don't have time to tarry. Be seeing you, Sherlock."

"You might not want to leave just yet," Sherlock said, his voice casual.

Lascar paused in his turn. "Oh?"

"Before I left my flat, I scheduled a posting to a private online bulletin board." He made a point of checking his watch. "For about 30 minutes from now. You might find the message interesting."

Lascar shifted his weight. His expression was carefully bland, but John thought he saw a nervous flicker in his brown eyes. "And why is that?" His voice was too casual.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps because of the nature of the board. It appeared to be a place for...shall we say buying and selling things of sensitive nature." He followed this statement with a long string of numbers that meant nothing to John, but from another flicker in his eyes, obviously meant something to Lascar.

"So?"

Lascar shifted an inch or so closer, and John tensed, fractionally increasing his pressure on the trigger of his gun. His breathing slowed, and his senses sharpened.

"The message indicates dissatisfaction with a certain purchase. Dissatisfaction in that moneys were collected but merchandise was not delivered. It mentioned you, I believe."

Lascar's face went white. John suppressed a smile but didn't relax his vigilance.

Sherlock went on. "Of course, the message is false, but I expect it would take you some time to reassure your buyers of that fact. Assuming some of your less savory customers don't simply decide to eliminate you."

Lascar moved his hand away from the small of his back. "And I presume this message can be recalled before the time limit?"

Sherlock held up his phone. "Of course."

Lascar tensed and leaned forward but before John could say anything, Sherlock added, "By me. With a password. 16 random alphanumeric characters. Unlikely you'd guess it in time."

Lascar stopped his forward motion. "I suppose if I give you what you are looking for, you'll stop the message?"

"Yes."

The villain's shoulders slumped, but John didn't relax.  Now was the time Lascar would be the most dangerous. He wanted to check his watch. How long before Lestrade arrived?

"And what do you want, Sherlock?"

"The location of Neville St. Clair."

Lascar nodded, the motion short and sharp. He started to speak but stopped as Sherlock added, "And the name of your employer."

Fear darted across Lascar's features. "I think you know I can't give you that."

Sherlock said nothing. John's hands were steady on his pistol.

Lascar took a step back. John tensed but did nothing.

"I can't give you St. Clair's location. I don't know where he is now. But I can tell you where we dropped him. You'll have to follow the trail from there."

Sherlock's gaze was steady, and John saw the subtle motions of his blue-green eyes. The motions that indicated he was reading Lascar's truthfulness. Finally, the detective nodded. "Disappointing, but acceptable."

"We were told to snatch him, unharmed and deliver him to the back of a coffee shop near King's Cross Station." He gave the name of the shop, but John had never heard of it. "What happened to him after that was none of our business."

Sherlock nodded. "And your employer?""

Fear chased across his face again. "No. I can't give you that." He held out his arms wide. "Kill me if you will. I won't divulge that name." He lowered his arms, carefully not putting them near his back. "But I think you already know it."

A small smile quirked Sherlock's lips. "I do. But more importantly, I now know that you do as well. A dangerous name to know. I was curious if you knew him, or just one of his network."

Lascar shifted again, his hands moving. John stepped in front of Sherlock again, preparing to fire.

At that moment, a loud voice sounded behind them. "Police."

Lascar stopped. Apparently killing them in front of law enforcement was too much. Lestrade stepped from behind John, pointedly not looking at the pistol the doctor was thrusting into his waistband.

Minutes later, Lascar was cuffed and in the back of Lestrade's car. Several other police cars were circled around the church, but only the detective inspector had been inside. He turned to John, his expression furious. "I never want to see that again. Do you understand?"

John nodded. "Completely."

Lestrade's expression eased.  "Did you get what you needed?" He glanced at Lascar in the back of the car. "He doesn't seem any worse for wear."

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock found a way to get to him that didn't involve direct harm."

He could see the inspector wanted to ask more, but he just shrugged and said, "Good. Not that I haven't wanted to beat a confession out of a suspect before, but most of the time it doesn't go the way you'd hoped."

John had seen evidence of that in Afghanistan. "I know." His voice was quiet but firm.

Lestrade shot him a penetrating look. "Yeah, I guess you would at that." He looked back at the car. "Well, we don't actually have anything on him, you know. Unlawful possession of a firearm is about it." He pointedly did not look at the waistband of John's jeans. "It certainly looked as though he was getting ready to draw on you, but I was about a second too late to see it for certain."

Sherlock strode over, coat furling behind him. "Just keep him off the street for the next five hours, if you can."

John didn't like the reminder of the time limit they were under.

Sherlock continued. "By then I'll either have plenty of evidence for you to charge him with. Or I'll have nothing. Either way, there will be no risk to him being on the street after that."

"You don't want him warning anyone?" Lestrade asked.

"Correct. So if you could avoid letting him have access to a phone?"

Lestrade nodded. "We can manage that. Did you get a clue as to St. Clair's location."

"A clue, yes. But only that. There's still more work to be done."

"Any way I can help?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at the moment."

"Have him check who owns the coffee shop?" John said.

Sherlock rewarded him with one of _those_ looks at the same time Lestrade asked, "Coffee house?"

"Excellent idea, John," Sherlock said, his voice warm. His gaze locked with John, and for a moment there was nothing in the world except blue-green eyes.

Lestrade cleared his throat behind them. "Coffee house?"

John shook himself and turned away with difficulty.  "Right. Lascar gave us the name of a coffee house near King's Cross where he was supposed to dump St. Clair." He gave Lestrade the name. "It might be nothing, but the owner of the shop might be another clue."

The inspector nodded. "Sounds reasonable. I can track that down and text it to you."

"Excellent, Greg."

Two sets of eyes converged on Sherlock, who continued on, oblivious to their reaction. "John and I will proceed to the shop and see what we can learn. Any additional information you can provide would be appreciated."

"Right," Lestrade said, his tone dry. "John, a word, please."

The doctor sighed, suspecting what was coming, but he followed Lestrade a few steps away. Sherlock looked impatient, but waited.

"Yes?"

"Everything all right with you two?" Lestrade asked.

"Sure. Why?"

Lestrade scratched his head. "Well, maybe, all right isn't what I should have asked. Anything going on between you two? That look you shared...well, it was just odd between blokes, if you know what I mean."

John sighed. He should have realized this would come up eventually. It wasn't that he was embarrassed by his relationship with Sherlock. It was more that he didn't know exactly what it was or how to describe it. As soon as this case was over, he was going to have to sit down with his flatmate and have a serious discussion.

"John?"

He must have paused too long before answering. "Look, Greg. Truth to be told, I don't really know how to describe what I am to Sherlock or vice versa. Once this is all over, let's meet at a pub, and I'll explain as best I can."

Lestrade nodded. "Works for me. Just..." he paused and took a deep breath before finishing. "Just be careful, okay. Sherlock is...well, you know what I mean, right?"

John glanced over at his friend, who was tapping his foot but pointedly not looking at them. "Yeah, I know. I'll be careful."

Lestrade thumped his shoulder. "Good. I'll let you know what I get about that shop, all right?"

John nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

As he joined Sherlock, he couldn't help thinking. _Sure, I'll be careful. Just as soon as I figure out what that looks like_.

***

Sherlock hailed a cab, and they were off again. Sometimes John wondered what it had been like to have a normal life. It had been so long.

"Were my methods acceptable?" Sherlock asked.

"Huh?" For a moment John had absolutely no idea what his friend was talking about.

"You'd asked me to avoid...extreme measures." His voice sounded irritated, and John shook himself. Paying attention was required with the detective. 

"Yeah, what you did was fine. Not what I was expecting, though, from the way you signaled me in the cab on the way over."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't sure he'd respond to the threat of the posting on the list. I wanted to keep my options open."

"I'm glad it worked, though. I've seen enough torture to last a lifetime."

Sherlock nodded 

"What do you expect we'll find at the shop?" John asked.

"Speculating without facts accomplishes little, John," was the only answer.

They arrived soon after, and, as usual, Sherlock swept off with a swirl of his coat, leaving John to pay the cab fare. After handing over the money, the doctor followed as quickly as he could.

The detective was standing outside the shop, frowning.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"How's your Pashto?" Sherlock asked, a frown crossing his face.

John shrugged. "Depends. Do you want to actually communicate or just insult someone's camel?"

A slight smile interrupted Sherlock's frown. "That's what I thought. This may be difficult."

John looked at the coffee shop. It looked like most of its kind in the city. Office workers streamed in and out, juggling steaming mugs as they did so. He looked more closely. While the patrons were a diverse lot, most of the signs were in both English and Pashto.

"Will the lack of language be a problem?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock squared his shoulders. "Let's find out."

"What do you want us to ask for?"

"Nothing at first. Order something and let me look around. We may not need to ask anything."

John had no idea what he was getting at, but he nodded his agreement anyway and stepped forward to open the door.

The interior was warm and smelled of roasting beans, with a hint of baking pastry. His stomach reminded him that it had been hours since breakfast, and he ordered two coffees and a large muffin. He would have ordered two, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat much, if anything, until the case was completed.

Once he had his order, he glanced around. His flatmate had found an empty table by the window and was looking around, his expression bored to someone who didn't know him as well as John.

"Found something, did you?" he said as he walked up and handed Sherlock the steaming cup.

"Possibly."

Both their phones beeped, and John put down the muffin with a look of regret. Now that he had food in front of him, he was hungry.

_Shop owned by Ahmad Baba. Thought to be involved in various types of trafficking, but no proof. Be careful. Greg_

When John looked up, he nearly bumped Sherlock, who had been looking over his shoulder. "Yours the same?"

Sherlock nodded. "It confirms my suspicions. I think I've seen what I needed." He glanced at John's muffin with a slight frown. "Finish that so we can go. We'll need to make some plans for later."

John ate his muffin in a rush, well used to it by now, and they left, taking their coffees with them.

"So what did you observe?"

"There's something behind the counter. I think it's a trap door."

John considered. "Think that's where Neville is being held?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes scanning left and right as he walked. "Impossible to tell. It's likely, but it could also lead to a tunnel or secret exit."

"Nothing else to be done. We'll have to check it out." John checked his watch. "And time continues to run out." He did some quick calculations. "No chance of waiting until they close."

"Agreed."

John shook his head. "Nothing for it, then. We call in Lestrade."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "On what cause? He already said he has suspicions but nothing definite to go on."

John shot his friend a grin. "And you are the great Sherlock Holmes. Don't tell me you didn't notice _something_ incriminating?"

The detective returned the grin. "As it happens, yes, I did."

"Thought so."

Sherlock reached for his phone and sent a text.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Did you notice the poster hanging behind the counter?"

John thought for a moment but drew a complete blank. "No."

Sherlock shook his head. "John, you see..."

"But I don't observe. Yeah, got that Sherlock. Now tell me what you saw."

Amusement lurked in the corner of Sherlock's eyes. "It was a poster for a movie, something mindless, I'm sure."

"Okay. Movie poster. And that's incriminating how?"

"It is when certain symbols have been added. The coffee house is a stop on a trafficking 'railroad.' I sent Lestrade a picture, with the relevant symbols highlighted. I'm certain he has someone on his staff who will be able to educate him to their meaning."

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he took it out. A moment later, he handed it to John, with a satisfied expression.

_Good work. On our way._

Sherlock found a nearby bench and sat down, settling his coat around him. "I estimate no more than 20 minutes or so."

John sat down, huddling into his jacket. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped several degrees from a few hours ago. His shoulder started to ache.

"Something wrong?"

John turned to see his flatmate regarding him, concern in his eyes. John shook his head. "It's nothing. Weather change is making my shoulder act up. Nothing I can't deal with."

The concern on Sherlock's face deepened. John sighed. "Really, it's okay. I'm well used to it by now. As soon as we see some action, the adrenalin'll kick in, and I won't even notice it."

Sherlock didn't look convinced, but he said nothing, just edging a bit to his left, closer to John, who could feel the heat radiating off his flatmate's body. He didn't say anything, but his friend's concern warmed him more than the faint body heat.

They sat in companionable silence until Lestrade and his men arrived.

***

The detective inspector pulled up to the kerb and jumped out of his car. "You're sure about this, Sherlock?"

"Of course. What else would it mean?" Sherlock stood up. John immediately missed the warmth, and he sighed and got to his own feet.

"Well, as it happens, the Middle East experts agree with you. What do you need to look at inside?"

"What appears to be a trap door behind the counter."

Lestrade stood up straighter, his body language that of a hound on point. "You think that's where Neville St. Clair is being held?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Probably not."

"Then why..."

The consulting detective continued as if Lestrade had not spoken at all. "But I suspect we'll find the next clue."

"Why don't you think Neville is there?" John asked, disappointed that this wasn't the final piece.

"It's too easy. We still have several hours until the deadline. Moriarty wouldn't make it this easy on us."

Lestrade nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. "Of course. You're right. It would be too easy." He shrugged. "But taking down this bunch isn't anything to ignore."

Two more police cars pulled up, and Lestrade motioned the officers into position. "All right. We'll handle round up everyone in the shop. Then you two can come in, and we'll check out the trap door."

Sherlock looked impatient but resigned. As soon as Lestrade turned to walk to the shop, John reached to check his gun. Sherlock gave him an approving look.

The police descended on the shop, and everyone was rounded up and marched outside within minutes. Lestrade motioned Sherlock and John to enter, and the two men complied.

"Other than the poster, not much incriminating," Lestrade said as they entered. One officer had remained inside. The detective inspector introduced him as Hassim.

The younger officer nodded at Sherlock. "Good call on that, sir."

The consulting detective ignored him and moved with determination to the counter. "John."

The doctor followed and watched as Sherlock walked all around the trap door, clearly visible once you knew to look for it.

A moment later, Sherlock nodded. "I don't see any traps." Even so, John tensed as his friend reached down, manipulated a hidden catch and raised the door. A ladder descended into darkness. Sherlock smiled at John. "After you?"

John stopped himself from reaching for his gun. "Anyone got a torch?"

Hassim handed one over, and John shone the light into the opening.  He peered down, shaking his head in disappointment.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"As you suspected. No one." The hole wasn't deep, maybe six feet or so. He went down the ladder and glanced around. The room was about four feet square and so full of boxes that John barely had enough room to turn around. "Used for storage, as far as I can tell. Lestrade, you'll want to go through these boxes." He took a deep breath, testing the air. "I think you'll find plenty to charge these folks with."

Lestrade stuck his head into the hole. "What do you mean?"

"Unless I miss my guess, there's opium derivatives in these boxes."

John heard a brief scuffle from above, and Sherlock's head replaced Lestrade's. "Any clues to Neville St. Clair's location?"

John shook his head. "Not that I can see, but that's really your area, Sherlock. I'll come back up, and you can come down and search to your heart's content."

John and Sherlock traded places. A moment later, Sherlock made a satisfied sound. John peered down. "What did you find?"

"There's a hidden door down here. John, come back down here and help me shift some boxes."

John rolled his eyes. There was barely enough room for the two of them, much less if they shifted boxes around, but he climbed back down.

Sherlock approached the task as if it were one of those puzzle games, and after a few minutes, they managed to move enough boxes to clear a way to the door, clearly visible once Sherlock had pointed it out.

John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded. John looked up at the trap door. Lestrade was peering down at them.

"You're not thinking about opening that, are you?"

John shot him a grin. "Of course. What else would you expect from us?"

Lestrade sighed and looked behind him. "Well, then you'd better go now. Everyone else is outside."

John smiled and turned to Sherlock, who nodded and flipped the catch that held the door closed. John wanted to reach for his gun, but he respected the detective inspector enough to wait until they were out of sight.

Nothing shot at them through the opened door, and John relaxed slightly.

"Be careful," Lestrade said from above them.

Neither man responded as they moved into darkness.

Just inside the door, Sherlock turned on his torch. John drew out his gun and strained to see.

They were in what appeared to be a small tunnel, not quite wide enough for them to walk side by side. The wan light from the torch didn't reach the end of it. Sherlock head moved back and forth. John started to take a step, but the detective stopped him with a hand.

"There's a trip wire."

John froze. "Any idea what it sets off?"

Sherlock's head moved slowly, up and to the right. John assumed he was following the course of the wire.

"I think it's attached to an explosive device."

John has a sudden flashback to Afghanistan. _Heat. Noise. Sand. Pain._

Sherlock's grip on his arm tightened. "Easy, John. We're still in London. And we're not going to trip this one." His baritone was warm and even.

John forced his muscles to relax. "Sorry. One of my unit stumbled over a wire, not twenty feet in front of me. He had just enough time to yell a warning, and I hit the ground." He closed his eyes against the sudden surge of memory. "His arm landed on me."

Sherlock's hand was firm, and he waited while John got his emotions under control. After a few minutes, he said, "All right. I'm fine now. Can we step over or under it?"

Sherlock loosened his grip and said, "Under, I believe. I don't think you're tall enough to step over it."

"Shine the torch on it."

Sherlock did so, and John could see the wire, shining faintly in the light. "Right. I can duck under that with no problem. Hold the light steady so I can see."

John crouched down low and duck-walked forward. His knees protested, and he was reminded that he was no longer a young man. A moment later, he was clear. He stood up and said, "Pass me the torch."

Sherlock held it under the wire, and John took it, holding it steady. He glanced behind him. If anyone were there, it would be the perfect time to attack.

Sherlock's height forced him to bend down and crawl under the wire. John was steady and on alert, but nothing happened. As soon as the detective stood back up, John handed him the torch. "You look for more wires. I'll keep an eye open for bad guys."

Sherlock nodded and began walking down the tunnel, John following just few feet behind.

The tunnel wasn't long, but it seemed to take hours to traverse it. In reality, John figured they took less than ten minutes. Sherlock discovered one more wire, near the exit. They successfully navigated it.

"Probably to stop anyone entering from the other direction," Sherlock said after they'd moved past the second wire.

"Make sense."

They kept their voices low, not sure exactly what lay ahead. Less than a minute later, the torchlight showed another door.

Sherlock shone the light up and down, examining the entire door. "No sign of any traps." He put his ear to the door and listened. After a moment, he straightened. "The door blocks most of the sound, but I think I hear street noise."

John gripped his gun more firmly. "Let me."

Sherlock nodded and stood back, his long body tense and ready.

John moved to the door and took a quick listen himself. He heard the faint sound of cars and possibly the hum of voices. He reached for the handle of the door and gently pushed it down. It moved with no resistance.

"Stay back." Carefully, he eased open the door just an inch. The sounds of the London street grew louder. He nodded at the confirmation. Now, did the door open into a building, or on the street?

He edged the door open another inch and put his eye to the crack.

"Anything?" Sherlock's voice was a low whisper.

John nodded, his shoulder relaxing. "Alley," he said.

He opened the door the rest of the way and took a cautious step outside.

A sharp crack sounded, and John hit the ground, his instincts taking over almost before he consciously heard the shot.

Sherlock hissed behind him. "Move, John. We're too exposed here."

John ignored him, taking a precious few seconds to take in his surroundings. Buildings on either side. Trash bins a few feet away on his left. Fire escape on his right. Glint of metal near the top of the fire escape and a quick flash of cloth. A coat?

John rolled left, behind the bins and knelt, peering out with just one eye. Definite movement above them.

He felt Sherlock move and started to yell a warning, but it was too late. The detective darted behind the bins. A shot rang out, and John heard Sherlock hiss.

"Are you hit?"

A long second passed, and John's heart threatened to burst from his chest. Then Sherlock's voice sounded in his ear. "Just a graze. Painful but nothing to worry about. We need to apprehend the shooter."

John clenched his teeth against the surge of relief and irritation that washed through him. "Yes that's an excellent idea, Sherlock. I'm open to suggestions."

"I believe I can draw his fire. Then you will shoot him. Try to incapacitate him instead of killing. I'd like to question him."

John thought about rolling his eyes but since he was facing away from the detective, the effect would be lost. "That's a wonderful plan. Excellent odds of you getting hurt or killed. And I appreciate your confidence in my shooting skills, but I'm not sure you haven't overestimated them."

"Nonsense, John. Fire two shots to cause him to duck for cover. Then I'll move before he has a chance to recover. By the time he's stood up again to get a good line on me, I'll be behind the next bin, and you'll have a clear shot."

John didn't like it, but he had to admit it wasn't a bad plan. And he didn't have a better one at the moment. "Fine. Get ready."

"Ready when you are."

"All right. On three, two, one."

John leaned out from behind the bin, firing two shots in the general direction of the fire escape. He heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. A moment later, he stood up and leaned out further. Sensing movement above him, he fired again and heard a grunt of surprise and pain.

Got him.

He glanced around quickly, and, seeing no other gunmen nearby, he dashed for the fire escape and scrambled up, hoping he really had hit the man. Otherwise he was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

When he reached the top, he moved, low and fast. The gunman was rolling on the rooftop, groaning and clutching his elbow.

John took half a second to congratulate himself for the shot. It looked like he'd shattered the other man's elbow, effectively taking him out of the fight.

He kicked away the other gun, noting in passing that it was little more than a cheap street piece. Kneeling down to examine the man, he saw the gunman was young, maybe in his early 20s, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

Motion behind made him whirl, gun raised, but he relaxed when he saw it was just Sherlock. John ran his eyes up and down his friend, noting blood on his right arm, near his shoulder. He tried to keep his voice casual. "Your tailor won't be thrilled."

Sherlock shook his head, but John noted the amusement in his blue-green eyes. "I rather think we have more important things to worry about at the moment."

He knelt down by the gunman, who was still groaning and clutching his elbow. His eyes flashed hatred, and he barked something in Pashto.

John grinned, and Sherlock must have noticed the expression. "You understood that?"

"Most of it. However, I doubt your mother actually engaged in that particular activity."

"Ah. Unlikely." He looked directly at the young man. "Tell us where to find Neville St. Clair, and we'll call an ambulance."

John stood up and remained alert, his gun trained on the shooter, who gritted his teeth and spat out something else.

Sherlock half-glanced over his shoulder. "Was that helpful?"

"Not particularly," John answered.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed the young man's shoulder. He tightened his hand, just a bit, and the man screamed.

"Sherlock..." John said, warning in his voice.

"We don't have much time, John."

Fortunately, the man didn't push it, and he gasped out a street name. John didn't recognize it, but from the set of Sherlock's shoulders, he thought the detective did. He let go of the man and stood up.

"That's what we needed. John, call an ambulance, and let's be gone from here."

John called the ambulance, gave them the location but declined to give his name. Sherlock was on his phone when he finished, and John could tell from the tone of his flatmate's tone that he was arguing with his brother. He put a hand on the taller man's arm and encouraged him to move on. He tried not to listen, but from the volume of Sherlock's voice it was hard to miss.

"...ballistics report must be 'lost,' dear brother."

Oh. John reached for his gun, securely in his waistband. He hadn't had enough time to consider the consequences of his recent actions. As per usual, Sherlock was two steps ahead.

"I will not take 'no' for an answer. Make it happen, or you'll have to find someone else to take care of your not-nearly-infrequent enough problems." A pause and then Sherlock's voice dropped, both in volume and in tone. "Of course it means that much to me, Mycroft. You understand the situation, and don't play games with me by pretending you don't." Another pause. By now they had reached the street, and both men strode along at a measured pace, as if nothing untoward had happened. John glanced at Sherlock's shoulder. Still bleeding. They needed to get off the street quickly.

"Thank you," Sherlock finally said, and he hung up. Pain crossed his features.

"We need to get you home," John said. "That may have only been a graze, but I suspect it needs stitches."

Sherlock shook his head. "No time. We know where Neville is being held, and we need to get to him quickly. It's likely the shooter was supposed to check in on some sort of schedule. When he misses that check-in, they will know something is up."

John frowned, seeing the sense in that. "All right, but you'll attract attention if you keep bleeding all over the street." He glanced around, and spotted a nearby store. "Come on. Over here. I'll buy us some bandages and fix you up, at least temporarily."

Sherlock huffed but allowed himself to be led inside, where John purchased basic first aid materials and then hustled both of them into the store's toilet, where he quickly washed and bandaged the wound. Sherlock had been correct. It wasn't too serious, just a long graze that started at about his elbow and ended halfway to his shoulder.

Sherlock stood without speaking through the entire operation. John could sense he wanted to fidget, but probably knew that would just make it take longer. Finally, he stood back and said, "There. That should hold for now. I'll do a better job when we get home."

Sherlock bent his arm a few times before putting his shirt back on. He grimaced at the long rip in the blue silk.

"Yeah, you'll need a new one."

The taller man nodded and frowned more deeply at the damage to his long coat.

"Mrs. Hudson'll fix it right up. You'll never notice."

"Unlikely, John." A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless."

Warmth settled in John's chest, and he knew he'd have to sort things out between them soon. Praise from Sherlock was getting entirely too distracting.

As soon as they'd left the shop, John said, "I guess I'd better be getting rid of my gun."

Sherlock turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Why?"

John shrugged. "Well, I overheard you talking to your brother. Those bullets are going to start raising eyebrows eventually. I mean, first the cabbie, and now that guy."

The tall man shook his head, the gesture firm. "It won't be a problem. If you overheard enough of the conversation to discern the subject, then you must have heard that Mycroft will take care of it."

He stepped to the street and raised a hand for a cab. They climbed in, and John said, "Well, yeah, I did hear that, but I doubt he'll be willing to take care of stuff indefinitely. Lestrade's right. I need to be more careful."

"It won't be a problem," Sherlock said in his _don't make me repeat myself_ tone.

"Oh, but..."

"No, buts, John. We have bigger concerns right now."

John didn't think that dismissing his gun was a small concern, but he knew when to let something go for the moment. "Right. We've got a location."

"I know the area. Police backup would not be unwelcome." He glanced at John and dropped his voice, to avoid the cabbie overhearing. "And it would ensure you didn't need your gun, since you are so concerned about it."

John felt a spark of anger at the condescension in his friend's tone, but now wasn't the time to deal with it. "Shall we call in Lestrade?"

"That might be best." He pointedly did not pull out his phone, and John sighed and reached for his.

The detective inspector picked up on the second ring. "John, what's this I hear about a shooting a couple of blocks from the coffee shop?"

"I'm sure I don't have any idea what you're talking about, Greg."

"Right." Lestrade drew out the word. "And something tells me there will be orders 'from the top' to drop any investigation of the matter."

"Again, I have no idea what you're talking about."

John heard a muffled snort on the other end of the line. "Yeah, about that. So, why did you call?"

"We have a possible location for Neville St. Clair." He gave Lestrade the address.

"Nasty part of town. I assume you're already on your way, and you'd like some backup."

"It would be appreciated, yes."

A deep sigh. "All right. I'm on my way. But, dammit, wait for me this time!"

John glanced at his flatmate and gave his own sigh. "I'll do what I can."

He hung up, and silence stretched through the rest of the ride.

***

They arrived at the location the gunman had told them about, and Sherlock swooped out of the cab, coat streaming behind him like a cape. As usual, he left John to pay the cabbie. The silence had not been comfortable, and, as he had many times in the last couple of days, the doctor wondered what was going on in his flatmate's head.

Right now, however, they had a man to rescue.

A moment later, Lestrade pulled up, parked at a reckless angle and climbed out of his own car. "What's the situation?" he asked, before he'd even closed his door.

John motioned to Sherlock, who was apparently examining the street and nearby buildings. They were in an industrial park. There was little traffic, either automobile or foot, and John felt exposed. Without conscious thought, he moved to put his back against a nearby wall. Lestrade followed his motion and nodded in approval.

"Ask him," John said, feeling less exposed with the solid brick against his back.

Sherlock raised a hand in a _don't talk to me now_ motion. Lestrade and John glanced at each other, shrugged in unison and waited, both of them keeping constant vigilance over their surroundings. After a moment, Sherlock walked over to them. "Several cars left in a hurry, no more than ten minutes ago. I'm assuming they heard about our source's unfortunate encounter."

Lestrade frowned. "What encounter?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No time for that now."

John wanted to ask how his friend knew about the sudden departure, but he presumed it had something to do with tire marks or the like. Besides, he'd run out of synonyms for "Amazing" months earlier.

Sherlock continued. "It's obvious the criminals have left. The only question is did they leave Neville St. Clair behind, or have they moved him again?"

Lestrade and John both glanced at their watches. "Only an hour to go until the deadline," John said. "We'd better hope they left him behind."

Sherlock nodded and motioned to the building in question. "Detective Inspector? Perhaps you'd like to do the honors. You are the one with the gun." His tone was pointed. 

John shot his friend a look but said nothing. This was getting silly 

Lestrade looked from one to the other, obviously sensing something, but he showed excellent sense by ignoring the tense undercurrent. "All right then. Follow me." He drew out his gun and walked forward.

There were two obvious entrances to the building, a small door to one side and a larger roll-up door, big enough for a delivery lorry. Lestrade moved to the smaller door. John followed, senses alert. Sherlock strode behind him, the very picture of unconcern. John had the irrational desire to slap him, but he managed to keep his hands to himself, one hovering near the small of his back, ready if needed.

Lestrade tested the doorknob, and it turned under his hand. He glanced behind him. "John. Open the door on a count of three. I'll cover you."

John stepped forward and nodded. Lestrade counted down, and John opened the door, stepping back to leave the Detective Inspector with a clear line of fire.

Lestrade rushed in, gun at the ready. He swept to one side and then the other. A moment later, he relaxed and said, "Clear."

Sherlock pushed past John to enter the building. John let him past and followed.

The inside was a large warehouse, mostly empty, although from the trash and detritus left behind, John thought it had been emptied recently.

Sherlock was already striding forward to examine what little was left. Lestrade still stood by the door, eyes sweeping back and forth. John thought he heard something, and he froze to listen.

Lestrade started to say something, but John waved him to silence. "Do you hear that?"

Sherlock's head shot around. He cocked his head, also listening. "Yes, near the back, I think."

John heard it again, a bit louder this time. Someone was calling for help. "This way," he said and began to move.

Sherlock intercepted him before he had gone more than a few steps. "Wait, John. Remember the traps in the tunnel."

John froze. "Oh right."

Lestrade approached them, carefully following the path both John and Sherlock had walked. "What traps?"

Sherlock answered, his voice distant as he examined floor and ceiling nearby. "The tunnel from the cafe. It was trapped at both ends."

"Right," Lestrade said, his voice dry.

Both men waited while the detective continued his examination. Finally, he shook his head. "Sloppy. Nothing here."

He began walking to the back of the large room.

John heard a faint _click_.

"Sherlock," he yelled and grabbed at the taller man, pulling him backwards.

Lestrade was already dashing for the door.

John knew they'd never make it in time. He tackled Sherlock, tumbling him to the ground. Then he threw himself on top of his friend, shielding him with his body.

The world erupted around them.

***

John didn't think he'd actually lost consciousness, but he couldn't be certain. The world greyed out for at least a few seconds. His ears rang, and he couldn't hear anything but high-pitched tones. He struggled to make his reluctant brain work. Someone would have heard the explosion. They might be coming. But the various parts of his body refused to respond to his commands.

Finally, he became aware of motion beneath him. Sherlock!

Panic sharpened him enough to roll aside and shake his head (not a good move, in hindsight). Sherlock's face swam into reluctant focus in front of him. His friend was speaking, which John thought must be a good sign. If he could only hear.

He felt another presence near him, and he rolled to the side, force of will getting him on to his feet to deal with...Lestrade.

He relaxed suddenly and almost fell. Sherlock's long arm caught him and supported him until his legs felt strong enough to hold him up.

The ringing in his ears started to fade, and he could faintly heat Sherlock's frantic baritone. "John! Are you all right? John!"

John stiffened his legs under him and forced himself to move away from his friend's surprisingly pleasant grip. "I'm fine. Sherlock, I'm fine."

His legs threatened to buckle again, but he waved away any offers of help. "What about the voice we heard?"

Lestrade chuckled. "He's been nearly blown up, and the first thing he asks is about someone else?"

"He does put a surprising emphasis on sentiment." Sherlock's tone was affectionate and amused.

John felt steady enough to look around him. "You and Lestrade are all right?"

Sherlock nodded, glancing at the detective inspector. "Yes. Lestrade can move quite quickly when he has need. And you shielded me from the worst of it."

John became aware of pain in his back. "My back?" He tried to look over his shoulder, but that made the world spin again, and he stopped his turn.

Lestrade's voice was reassuring. "Your jumper's a goner, and you've got some burning, but it doesn't look too bad from here. About like a bad sunburn. We'll want to get you to A&E, but you'll be fine."

Relief washed through him. He'd seen incendiary burns before, and he knew how dangerous and painful they could be.

"The explosive was sloppy, ill-placed and not particularly powerful," Sherlock said. "Lucky for us that they didn't know what they were doing."

"Yeah, lucky is right," Lestrade said. "Since you missed the trigger."

"Let's check the back of the building and see if we can find who was calling for help."

Lestrade and John exchanged wry grins at Sherlock's disregard of the inspector's statement.

John found moving painful but possible, and he trailed behind the other two men. A few minutes later, Neville St. Clair was recovered from a back room. He was frightened, underfed and dehydrated, but otherwise unharmed.

The ambulance arrived, and John and Neville were carted off to the A&E, where John's wounds were bandaged. He lost track of Sherlock in the confusion, but he was too sore to worry too much.

As soon as he was bandaged and discharged with instructions and a prescription for painkillers, antibiotics and a soothing ointment, he made his way to the front of the hospital, in search of a cab home.

Sherlock met him, anxiety melting into relief at the site of the compact doctor. "John! They wouldn't let me come back."

John limped over to him. "I'm fine, but I hope you can get us a cab quickly. I'm wiped out."

A few minutes later, they were settled and on their way home.

"Everything all wrapped up?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "And I've contacted Mrs. St. Clair. She's on her way to rejoin her husband."

"What about the gang, or whatever they were?"

"Lestrade and his people are interviewing the ones they have in custody. They expect to round up the rest in a matter of days. They were involved in both human trafficking and other endeavors. Lestrade is delighted to finally have enough to put a stop to them."

"Good." John hesitated before asking the final question. He needed to know, but he dreaded the response.

Sherlock answered the unasked question. "Moriarty sent a text congratulating me on solving the case. He said he'd 'be in touch later.'"

"So we're still not rid of him?"

"Apparently not."

John thought for a moment. "That was too simple for Moriarty."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Makes you wonder what he's going to do next."

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

***

Several days passed, and things returned to normal. Mrs. Hudson fussed over John, bringing him tea and making him his favorite foods. John enjoyed the attention.

Sherlock solved a minor case involving the mysterious disappearance of some family heirlooms. When it was finished, he said, "Not mysterious at all. Completely obvious that it was the daughter all along."

John couldn't find a good opportunity to bring up the odd distance that resumed between them, once Sherlock was convinced of John's eventual recovery. Every time he thought to bring it up, Sherlock would claim to be "too busy with an experiment" or he'd dash off "on an urgent call from the morgue for some body parts he'd been waiting for."

A week after the Neville St. Clair issue, John was feeling recovered enough to reschedule the aborted "date" with Mary.

***

John came back to the flat, unlocked the door and stepped inside. He was tired and pleasantly sated. He and Mary hadn't gotten much sleep, just a few hours, and he had in mind crawling into his bed for a bit more. Maybe he'd just spend the entire day there. Surely Sherlock wouldn't need him until evening.

He glanced around the living room. Empty. Violin abandoned by the window. Some sort of experiment on their shared desk. John glanced at it on the way by, shrugged and moved on. Then he stopped and went back for a closer look. Was Sherlock really assembling pipe bombs? And for what reason? To prove he was better at it than the trafficking gang?

The kitchen table was oddly clear, and John started a kettle for some tea. Just the thing before heading to bed.

He started for the bathroom and noticed that Sherlock's bedroom door was closed. Okay, that was odd. His flatmate had no sense of privacy, routinely wandering half (or completely) naked into the living room or kitchen. The last time John could remember the door being closed was when Sherlock had been sleeping off Irene Adler's drug, and John had been the one to close the door then.

He tried the knob. Locked? Okay, this was moving beyond weird and into disturbing.

He knocked. "Sherlock? Everything all right?"

No sound, though John had the feeling his friend was in there.

He glanced down the stairs. Yes, there was Sherlock's coat. He wouldn't have left without that. What was up?

He knocked again. Still no answer, though he was sure he heard faint movements inside. Was he sick? Or just in a monumental sulk?

Sighing, he trotted downstairs and felt in his coat pocket. Yes, there was his phone. It was ludicrous to text Sherlock when they were both in the same flat, but John had sent far stranger texts.

He unlocked his phone and nearly dropped it in surprise.

_23 unread text messages_

_3 missed calls_

What? He looked at the call log. All three were from Sherlock. No voicemail, though. Sherlock _never_ called. Why now?

Next he looked at the texts. Also, all of them from Sherlock, except for one from Mary. He read it first.

_Thanks for last night. It was magnificent._

He smiled. It had been at that.

Next he looked at some of the messages from Sherlock. And grew more confused after each one.

_John?_

_SH_

_John? Why?_

_SH_

_John, what have I done?_

_SH_

_John, please just answer. Tell me what I need to do to fix this!_

_SH_

_JOHN!_

_SH_

_John, where are you? Please come home._

_SH_

John frowned. Clearly Sherlock hadn't known where he was last night. But that didn't make any sense. John had mentioned on his way out last night that he was taking Mary to the theatre, and that he'd be home late. Then when one thing had led to another, and they'd decided to get a hotel room for the night, he'd texted Sherlock to let him know he wouldn't be home. Hadn't he sent the text? He remembered typing it. Quickly, he opened his Sent Messages

_Not coming back._

Shit! He'd meant to send _Not coming back tonight,_ but Mary had been doing something...intricate...with her fingers at the time, and he guessed he'd dropped the "tonight" by accident. But surely Sherlock hadn't thought...

A memory flashed through his mind. Mycroft and the conversation at the hotel a few weeks earlier.

_"...Once. A woman. It didn't end well."_

_"...He didn't end it. She did."_

Oh, God no!

He ran back up the stairs, clearing three at a time in his haste. He darted to the closed bedroom door. What to do?

He pounded this time. "Sherlock! Open up. It's okay. I didn't mean it. The text. I didn't mean it!"

_"Locked himself in his room and refused to come out, or eat, for more than a week."_

Still no answer from inside.

John hesitated for another moment and then, sending a silent apology to Mrs. Hudson, he stepped back, braced himself and broke down the door with a single kick.

Sherlock's room was dark and smelled of fear and despair, odors he'd learned all too well in Afghanistan.

He took a step inside. A figure huddled on the bed.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

_"When she saw him, she called me. He'd lost nearly 15 pounds and looked it."_

He stepped closer, until he could see his friend, curled in on himself, knees to his chest, hugging his knees and rocking slowly back and forth. Silent tears streamed down his angular cheekbones.

_"I held him for hours while he cried, in absolute silence, by the way, on my shoulder."_

Suddenly John realized how thin his flatmate looked. Surely this was more than one evening?

He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock eat. He couldn't. And the strange distance between them? Was all this related?

Two quick steps took him to the bed. He scrambled across the rumpled sheets and held Sherlock close.

No response. He continued to rock.

John put a hand on his face and gently lifted it. Sherlock's eyes were open, but they weren't seeing the room. John had seen this before. Soldiers who couldn't get themselves out of the private Hell the War left them in.

John released the pale face, and hugged him closer.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean the text that way. I just wanted to let you know I wasn't coming home last night. I didn't want you to worry that Moriarty or someone else had spirited me away. I never thought. I never thought you'd think I'd left. Why would I leave you? Sherlock, I love you. I love you."

Still nothing. Just the silent tears and relentless rocking.

John rocked with him, not knowing what else to do. How to bring him back?

_"You have it in your power to hurt my brother very badly."_

Later he could never remember how long he'd sat there, but finally his training asserted itself, and he sat up.

"I'm sorry for this, but it's what you need."

He lifted his hand and slapped Sherlock across the face, hard enough to snap his head back.

No response.

He did it again.

No response.

Again. Only this time, Sherlock's hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

John sighed in relief.

"Why are you slapping me?"

It wasn't close to its usual confident baritone, being about an octave higher than normal, but it was something. John looked closely at his friend's eyes. Dilated and still haunted but aware.

"Because you were in shock, and I needed to get you out of it."

Sherlock blinked, a bit more awareness coming into his face. "John. You're here?"

"Of course I am, you daft idiot."

"But...your text?"

"Didn't mean what you thought it did. Come on. This place stinks. Let's go to the living room."

He half-lifted Sherlock off the bed and led him to the couch.

"John?"

He put a finger to his friend's lips. "Not now. I'm getting you some strong coffee."

He hurried for the kitchen, where the kettle had finished heating the water. Quickly, he got down two mugs. One he filled with water and a tea bag. Into the other, he dumped several heaping spoonsful of instant coffee. He hated the stuff and always brewed his coffee, but Sherlock kept buying the stuff, insisting that it took too long to brew. Just now John was glad for it. He stirred it and took a quick sip. Hot and very strong. Good.

Rummaging through the cupboards and reaching to the very back, he drew forth a small bottle. Good. He thought he'd remembered that being there. He poured a hefty dollop of brandy in the coffee, considered a moment and added one to his tea.

Taking both cups, he went back to the living room. Sherlock was still on the couch. He'd half curled in on himself again and was rocking slightly. John gently tapped his shoulder. "None of that. Drink this."

The dazed man took the cup and gulped down half the contents. He spluttered. "What is this?"

John had taken the opportunity to swallow some of his, and the warmth of the brandy was just hitting his stomach. "Three times the recommended amount of coffee and two hits of brandy. Figured you needed it."

Sherlock took another sip, more carefully this time. "Yes." When he finally looked up, John was grateful to see his eyes responding properly to the light, showing far more blue, with a hint of green, instead of the unrelieved black of earlier.

"I don't understand."

John smiled. "Obviously. And I'm terribly sorry to have scared you. The show ran late, and Mary and I were...well...we decided to get a room for the night. I texted you, intending to say 'Not coming back tonight.' But apparently I forgot the 'tonight' part."

"Oh." He took another swallow of his laced coffee.

"Sherlock?"

Suddenly his flatmate put down his cup, got up and went to the table to examine his "experiment."

"Sherlock?" A bit louder this time.

"Everything's fine. You've explained. Now I have work to do."

 _Right. Because building a bomb is ever so much important than actually talking_ , John thought.

He got up, walked over to his friend, grasped his shoulder and turned him around. Still somewhat-dazed eyes narrowed in confusion.

"No, I haven't finished."

"What more is there to say?" His voice sounded completely reasonable, but John recognized the faint undercurrent of pain.

"Sit down." He pushed him back toward the couch and followed, sitting down next to his friend, not letting go of his shoulders.

Sherlock's eyes darted to his hands and then back to his face, but he said nothing.

"Your brother was right, you know?"

Sherlock's glare was adorably indignant. "I find that highly unlikely."

John couldn't help the smile. "He was, though, and I'm sorry to have forgotten it."

Sherlock frowned. "What did he say?"

"That I had the potential to hurt you very badly."

Sherlock's face closed down completely.

John squeezed his shoulder. "No, you idiot. Don't close down on me. It's obviously true, which is why I'm calling it off with Mary."

That surprised Sherlock into a quick blink. "There's no need for that."

"Yes, there is," John said, interrupting him before he could go further. "I know you said you were okay with it, encouraged it even, but it's been obvious for a while now that something was bothering you. I don't think my text mix-up would have had the same effect otherwise."

Sherlock started to say something and then stopped.

"It's for the best all round. Gary's been getting less and less happy with the arrangement as well, and I don't want to mess up their marriage either."

Sherlock still said nothing, but his eyes drifted off to one side. John knew he was thinking it over.

Finally, he said. "But I thought you needed...sex."

John nodded. "Thought I did. Realized you were more important." He shrugged. "I've got hands, don't I?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted off again. John waited.

 "Thank you."

John smiled, but Sherlock wasn't finished. "What do you require of me?"

John frowned. "What do you mean? I don't require anything..."

Sherlock's hand gesture cut him off. "You have given up something for me. And given me something I have wanted. Is it not appropriate for me to give something in return? Isn't this how relationships work?"

John felt warm inside when he heard "relationship." Seemed like it had been a while since they'd called it that. "Well, yeah, but..."

"No buts. What do you need from me?" This time there was nothing but assurance in his voice.

John thought for a minute. "Well, since you mention it. Touching."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a physical man. I like...contact sometimes. It doesn't have to be anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just knowing I can touch you would be...well, it would help a lot."

"I've never said you couldn't touch me."

"No, but you've never really encouraged it either. You kind of give off 'don't come too close' vibes most of the time. And you almost never touch me."

Sherlock considered. John waited. Finally, his friend nodded. "All right. You may touch me whenever  you like. And I will make an effort to remember to touch you." His blue eyes shifted more to green. "I'm sorry. As you know, I have not been in love often. I don't always know what's expected."

The warmth that had spread through him at "relationship" became a pleasant burning all the way to his toes. "Right. Sorry. I know that. I just, well, I forget sometimes too."

Sherlock nodded, and John assumed that was the end of it, but he was surprised when his flatmate added, "What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Touching is an assumed part of a relationship. I should have been doing that all along. It's not sufficient to make up for you giving up sex. What else do you desire of me?"

Now John heard an undercurrent of worry in his voice. Did he think John was going to ask for sex? They'd covered that pretty early on. John didn't think he desired Sherlock that way.

Guilty flash to the recent dreams.

Okay, he wasn't sure about how he felt, but they'd cover that ground later. Fortunately, John had an easier request for now.

"Well, one of the things I really miss and was actually very nice this morning was waking up next to someone. So, maybe you'd be willing to sleep with me sometime."

Sherlock started to raise an eyebrow, and John hastily added, "as in sleep, the thing you do at night to get rested for the next day, not the other way people talk about sleeping with each other."

"I understood what you meant."

"Well?"

Sherlock considered the request.

"And not like, every night or anything. Just when you wouldn't mind it too much."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I can do that."

"All right then." John was still stunned at everything that had happened since he'd arrived back at the flat. From Sherlock near-catatonic in his room to...this. Suddenly he yawned. "Sorry. Just didn't get much sleep last night."

His flatmate waved him out of the room. "Go. Get some sleep. There's a case coming in later today, but you've got enough time to kip for at least a few hours."

John went, knowing he'd better get it while he could.

***

As with the declarations of love, not much really changed. Sherlock started running his fingers along the back of John's neck when he'd walk by his flatmate reading in his chair. He agreed to a few more takeaway-plus-film evenings, thighs pressed close together as they sat on the couch and Sherlock insulted the "insipid plot lines." And John stole a few hugs here and there, nothing too much, but enough to satisfy his need for contact.

And then, a week after their conversation, John was lying in bed, drifting in and out. He heard a quiet step in the hall, followed by a heavy weight on his bed. He held his breath, hoping.

Sherlock climbed under the sheet, moved closer so his chest was pressed against John's back. A hesitant arm crept around his waist.

John smiled in sleepy satisfaction and settled against the warmth at his back. "Don't hog all the covers."

Yes, it was fine. It was all fine.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Banner For The Adventure of the Twisted Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/671202) by [jennybliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennybliss/pseuds/jennybliss)




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